


Memories of a Kingdom

by StayAWhileAndListen



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, The Heir's gender is unknown because everyone is too afraid to ask
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 09:36:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13831425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StayAWhileAndListen/pseuds/StayAWhileAndListen
Summary: The Heir is enjoying a drink at the tavern when they are interrupted by a friendly presence.AKA: A mini-fic based on several videos I watched.





	Memories of a Kingdom

The very first thing the young Heir did upon re-entering the hamlet was to give the other four that had gone along to the Cove with them a once over. Two had their foot stuck in death's door. The other had become diseased due to curiosity and a sharp piece of coral. One had lost their lives to a heart attack. And they themselves had a pounding heart and head-- barely managing to keep their sanity in check.

So, the first thing the Heir did was reminiscence on the quest they had done, and the party they had taken. The second thing was to take their coin and silently push their way into the tavern-- ignoring the onslaught of voices. It was much better than the constant drip... drip... drip of the Cove.  
Of course, they could have very well gone to the abbey. However, they weren’t much of a religious person all things considered. It was hard to keep your faith with what one saw every single day outside of the Hamlet. Besides- they would rather not listen to the sounds of whip cracks on the other side of the walls.

So their options lay here. The bar or the gambling table (the brothel was currently cleaning the bed sheets, and it wasn’t really a choice for them either). 

The Heir figured their luck to not be the greatest thing, especially after losing quite nearly every gold piece they had at the table to the jester. So, to satiate their beating heart, they shuffled themselves towards the bar and ordered a pint of the strongest. A running gag. There was really only one ale they served here-- and it tasted like hogwash. But, it was all the heir could get for the time being. Not like any merchant would carry ale all the way out to blighted lands.

Placing down their gold, the Heir shifted their scarf down enough to let their mouth free, grasping the mug in their spidery fingers and bringing the swill down with a grimace. 

It would be a long night.

\---

Three drinks into the night and the Heir finally felt someone heavy drop into a stool next to them. Deciding that perhaps staring into the dark swirls of some unknown substance that filled the ale other than alcohol itself was a rather boring way to spend their time, they raised their head towards the newcomer. 

“Baldwin. Not unwelcome company, but why are you at the tavern of all places? I thought you had sworn against drinking.” A quick motion of sleight-of-hand helped them replace the scarf around their mouth, hiding the rest of their face saving the eyes. Sunken black orbs that might’ve once sparkled with wonder, now dulled against the tragedy of the manor. The Heir examined the fallen king, but garnered nothing due to his mask being in place. 

“I have. I was not aware you even partook.” The robed figure had to lean closer to hear the man’s deeper voice over the din of the tavern. Having time to parse what was said, the Heir snorted and took another sip of the swill before them. 

“Neither did I. That does not answer my question, however.” Placing their fourth empty mug onto the counter, they tossed a few more gold and fully turned towards the armored leper. “Why are you here? Did you need something of me?”

“Yes. Could we speak somewhere quieter?” Resting their back against the bartop, the Heir closed their brackish black eyes for a brief moment of respite before nodding.

“Right, then. Shall we go? To my residence.”

\---

“What is it that is so important, it compelled you to come to me?” A pause. “... it isn’t Reynauld and Dismas again, is it? I thought I had Junia take care of that…” The Heir had begun to space about the little office area they had put together for themselves. Apparently, it was formerly the home of their Ancestor, outside of the manor that is. It also happened to be where he took a flintlock to his head. Fond memories, this place.

Thankfully, though, Baldwin cleared his throat to garner their attention. “No no, it is not anything they have done. It is more something I had to get off of my chest. I believe this will be beneficial to let go of before I die.”

“You speak as if I would let such a fate befall you. At some point, surely, we will find something to help but... “ A sigh, they dropped into the office’s padded red chair in front of their Ancestor’s desk. “... another time. Please, sit! And, regale me in whatever it is you wish to speak of.”

Baldwin gave a slight nod, lowering himself onto one of the smaller chairs the Heir had placed in the room. Four of each, they were all for returning parties to convey what all they needed and what the Heir wanted to do next. He curled his fingers together onto his lap, exhaling a breath that seemed to shake his chest and lungs. There were no words for several minutes, but the former king was company that the Heir did not mind bouts of silence from. It usually meant he was thinking about something or another.  
“... back in my kingdom, before I was crowned, I used to sneak away from my royal lessons to be with gypsies and learn how to belly dance.”

A beat of silence, then two. The Heir waited for Baldwin to correct himself in any way, and when it didn’t seem like that was going to happen, they reached into a drawer of the desk and withdrew a flask of whiskey. They slowly unscrewed the top, took a hard swig, and shivered. The flask was quickly stowed away, and they finally returned to the man in front of them.  
“... belly dance. You used to…” 

“Yes, belly dance. It was one of my passions in my youth. Fleeting as it was. It has been weighing heavy on my shoulders. Hard to swing true with excess baggage. I knew you would not be prejudiced towards this information--”

“Do you miss it, then?”

“... terribly. Every fog-tilled night where I can see the glimmers of the stars, I remember golden baubles and loose fabric dances.” Baldwin’s hands seemed to clench together briefly, as if lost in the throes of memory. The Heir had felt similar things upon entering the hamlet for the first time. Walking the cracking stone halls of the ruins. Looking upon the faces of Dismas and Reynauld after weeks of fighting these blighted lands.

“Would you teach me, if I asked?”

“... I am sorry?”

“Would you teach me to belly dance?”

Perhaps there can be some hope, still, in the darkest dungeons of them all.


End file.
